Wild Wendy
by Barrett's Privateer
Summary: A WoC/Planes fic mainly concerning one of the supporting characters of Planes and some OC's. Bravo, under doctor's orders, must take shore duty until he recovers fully from an injury sustained during a mission. Joining a "military mentor" program to counsel troubled teens sounds like interesting work, but can he make a difference to an angry, half-breed fighter girl?
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's note/disclaimer: I do not own Bravo or any other characters copyrighted by Disney. There is no money being made off of this!_**

Glencombe was a small airport community located in the middle of the Alaskan Panhandle, about hopping distance from Juneau. Perhaps 1200 aircraft and associated vehicles called it home. It had the usual collection of residential and commercial hangars, a few stores, a diner and a small admin center with some pathetic, weathered structure which should have been arrested for attempting to impersonate a control tower. But what really made Glencombe the punchline of local humor was that it was the location of one of the most notorious facilities for "juvenile aircraft offenders" on the west coast. If there was an adolescent in trouble with the law, and they had wings or rotors, it was entirely possible that they'd end up cooling their engines at Glencombe Youth Correctional Facility.

On this Monday, two pitties glided down the aisles of the long hangar section marked as "D Wing." One of them was a veteran, the chief correctional officer for the section, the other a new guard. The chief introduced the rookie, in turn, to the kleptomanic Dash-8, the young warbird with poor impulse control, the Cessna kid who'd been caught dealing illegal substances, and the Sikorsky S-76 who majored in drug addiction, chronic truancy and pathological lying, not to mention being "patient zero" for at least two outbreaks of diseases that, back in the day, would have been delicately referred to as "social". By now, the new guard was sure that he was seeing it all... until a shrill stream of curses from down the aisle broke the sullen silence.

The newbie froze in place for a beat or two. "Who's that, Chief?"

"Wendy again." his superior rolled his eyes in a world-weary fashion. "With that mouth on her, she'd make a hell of a drill instructor if she ever straightened out. But that's as likely as a steamroller winning the Piston Cup. We'll see her in a second." The older pitty cracked a wry grin. "Just brace yourself."

The rookie looked to where the chief's tine was pointing - and his mouth went slightly dry at the sight of a stall enclosed on all four sides with thick steel mesh, with netting on the inside. But all that didn't stop the furious occupant from grating the basket of her muzzle - yes, a _muzzle_ - against the front bars of her lockup as she loosed another torrent of profanity for the benefit of their ear-panels. There was an impression of wild grey-green eyes over the distressed yellow paint of the muzzle, which struck sparks as its wearer dragged it across the bars another time.

"Good morning, Wendy." the chief guard sighed in a half-resigned fashion. "I see you aren't too happy right now."

"Go **** yourself, old man." she growled, pulling back at last. The new pitty took his breath in sharply as he got a full view of her through the bars - a fast, twin-engined mil-type jet in a natural camo pattern of slate blue, grey and white. He would have taken her for a legacy Hornet at first glance, but the angled tops and straight-up configuration of the twin tails suggested a Russkie in her genetic woodpile. Had some F-18 taken up with a Fulcrum and got themselves this prize? In the years after the Cold War's end, it was definitely possible.

"Watch it, son." the chief cautioned. "We got her muzzled and booted for a reason. Little Wendy here's bitten just about everybody in the wing, and the last time she made a break for it, took three relays of fighters from the National Guard and our neighbors in Canada to wear her out. She's fast as hell and has the range of a jetliner. Too bad her parents left her to the wonders of foster care, any kid would hate the world after getting bounced around in that system."

"What are they going to do with her here?" the newbie backed off by degrees, feeling the white-hot fury emanating from Wendy's cage.

"I have no idea." the veteran sighed. "But damn, what a waste." he turned and beckoned the rookie to follow. "Let's go on."

As they departed, Wendy took a few more parting shots, mostly graphic speculations on the circumstances under which her warders were conceived, and what their parents should have done as an alternative to allowing conception to occur.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Author's note/disclaimer: I do not own Bravo or any other characters copyrighted by Disney. There is no money being made off of this!_**

The fighter wasn't used to the feeling of resignation. It felt all wrong to him, yet here it was. The doctor's report lay on the low table between him and his plane captain, a normally taciturn pitty known to the rest of the crew as "Dutch". But Dutch was talking now, and his tone sounded as unhappy as the jet now felt.

"That's what he said, Bravo." the pitty shrugged and sighed. "The repairs are made, but it'll take at least six months for them to set properly and for the frame to heal around them. That means no cat and no wire for that time. Sorry I don't have some better news for you right now."

"S'OK, Dutch." The part-bred Hornet settled on his shocks, elevators drooping. "But what am I supposed to do until we get to port? Last place I want to be is sitting on my tail, down here, when everybody else is on deck or out." Bravo's eyes shifted towards the rest of the now partly-empty hangar deck. Echo was away, having been paired with one of the newbies for the interim. Which was all well and good, as the newly nicknamed "Peach" would benefit from flying at the side of a veteran, but the dejecting feeling of letting one's wingman down was something Bravo could not help.

"Well, it'd be a good time to catch up on paperwork, anyway." Dutch half-joked. Everything was pretty much caught up with.

Bravo hiked up, snorting explosively in frustration. It carried through the hangar deck like a pistol shot, causing the other occupants to look back in varying degrees of bemusement or annoyance. In the case of one Hawkeye, who had been on patrol all last night, extreme annoyance as she woke up and shot a bleary stinkeye in Bravo's direction. He responded with a tight, apologetic grin.

"Anyway... we could see if anyone else needs help with it." Dutch shrugged again. "Otherwise, you'd be best advised to take it easy. By the time we make port, they'll probably have a nice temporary shore posting lined up for you."

Bravo rocked back slightly. Sprains happened. Torn struts happened. When both happened at once, in flight, he was lucky to come back and land in one piece, let alone on a black-*** night with twenty-foot swells pitching the boat. The LSO and the air boss had been almost amazed. Very little amazed those guys.

"Fine." he huffed at last. "As long as I'm not sitting behind a desk for six months."

**_Glencombe, Alaska, three weeks later:_**

"Lt.-Commander Hall?" the Cessna Caravan woman smiled as she approached him on the apron. "Welcome to Glencombe. I'm Karen Owens, I'm the assistant administrator at the youth facility. First of all, thank you very much for taking part in this program."

"Glad to be of help, Ms. Owens." the Hornet mix smiled. "I had the option, and it looks to be more interesting than desk duty anyway."

"It can be very challenging," the Cessna rolled alongside. "But for me, working with these kids has been very rewarding. I'm happy to say that our rate of recidivism has gone down eight percent in the last three years." Her smile dropped a little. "But more would always be better. If this military mentor program helps even one child, it would be worth it."

Ahead of them, beyond two layers of twelve-foot chain-link fence and a double gate, the austere, far-flung complex of "the facility" lay. Its occupants were visible in the exercise yards, some already sniffing the air as they detected a newcomer. Many of them were hardly "children", but well-grown adolescents who cast wary eyes on the vice-admin as she escorted the jet through the checkpoints. Some, however, rose on their gear and whispered to their companions as they lay their eyes on a real fighter.

"The director and some of the board members are waiting for us." Karen drew his attention back. "And there'll be a few other people to meet and things to go over before you get started. You'll have a lot of support; we're not going to just throw you to the wolfbikes here."

"Good." the fighter replied laconically. "Anything else I should know, Ms. Owens?"

"We can go over that at the office." the prop plane answered. "And you can just call me Karen. What would you rather go by?"

"Oh..just "Bravo." That'll do."


	3. Chapter 3

**_Author's note/disclaimer: I do not own Bravo or any other characters copyrighted by Disney. There is no money being made off of this!_**

Under the regulations of the facility, it was required that even the most difficult of the institution's "guests" were to be allowed a certain amount of open-air exercise per day. For Wendy, this was a inside a fenced run attached to her stall, also specially built. For one hour in the morning and another in the afternoon, the Hornet/MiG mix paced the perimeter of her confines, occasionally striking her muzzle against the fence grating if anyone else got too close. The attendant pitties gingerly stole up to the door hatch, dropped a can with a straw into a receptacle, and withdrew just as quickly. The gaps in Wendy's muzzle allowed her to take liquids through a straw, and that was all she received in the way of nourishment since they'd tranquilized her to put it on several weeks before.

Even at several hundred paces, the sounds of anger grated on the senses of the vice-director and the new arrival. The fighter paused, nose up and quivering, his stance shouting WHO/WHAT-IS-THAT. On his escort's face, a fleeting look of sad frustration before a mask of composure reasserted itself. The grating was followed by yet another stream of words, few of which exceeded four characters in length. Most sane people would give that stall a wide berth, but after the initial alert, the visiting jet proceeded steadily down the row, getting slightly ahead of the Cessna as his interest was piqued. His makeup and training did not leave him predisposed to run from trouble and he wasn't about to start now.

The girl inside the run froze momentarily as the other Hornet mix suddenly appeared on the other side of the bars. Her eyes narrowed as she sized him up - then she lunged violently, banging the muzzle cage and shrieking. The male outside stayed still, his expression neutral. He wasn't getting any closer, but he wasn't retreating either. The Cessna hesitated, and the guard pitties tensed for action.

"Uh - Bravo, you'd better pull back." Karen warned. "This girl is very violent, and that muzzle's on for a reason."

"So I figured." Bravo replied, but his eyes stayed on the raging teen. "How come she's not at Anderson or some other place rated for jets?"

"Too dangerous to move, sir." the chief guard spoke up. "Last time they tried, she made a break for it and got to the middle of Canada before she ran dry. The RCAF weren't too happy about it either, they almost shot her down. As it was they had to help escort her back."

Bravo absorbed the that information on a peripheral level, but the bulk of his attention went to assessing what was here in front of him. He looked her over in a deliberate fashion, noting the details of her build, calculating potential performance. When on mission, his life depended on such judgement. _Strong. Almost my size. Likely very maneuverable. Can probably break and jink like a demon on fire. No wonder they had trouble keeping up with her. _She was still rattling the bars and calling Bravo every name in her bountiful lexicon of profanity, but he wasn't going anywhere, despite the anxious entreaties of the others.

"Kid," he said at last, "I'm sure you've got your reasons for being what you are, and I've got my reasons for being what I am. If you think that big display will impress me, think again." With that, he advanced until his nose cone was just inches from the bars.

The teen was still dragging her muzzle across the gate, still cursing, but the pressure Bravo was putting on her just by his implacable proximity had diminished the surety of her movements, and she had just about run through her bag of scare'em-off tricks. She tried a few more feints, lunges and muzzle strikes, but each time she withdrew for running room, the interval of retreat became longer. Finally, she stopped halfway, eyes still sullen, but heaving with frustration and exhaustion. Resistance wasn't much fun when the focus of your ire refused to be duly shocked and awed. As she settled on her undercarriage and ceased for the duration, Bravo finally pulled back and released the pressure. The girl still glared, but remained still.

To Karen, he shrugged. "I'm no child psychologist, but it's hardly the first time I had to talk sense to some kid who thought they were all that and a bag of chips. What's her name anyway?"

"Wendy Forrestal." the Cessna answered. "And what you saw is what we get from her almost every day. She was sent here when the foster system couldn't handle her any more. We did apply to have her transferred, before her escape attempts, but I think you already know how long it takes any bureaucracy to process things."

"Color me not surprised." Bravo fell in beside Karen once again. "Sorry for what happened, but I wasn't going to let her get the better of me before we even began. Assuming, of course, that SHE's the reason why I'm here."

"Part of it, anyway." Karen's mouth tightened for an instant before being forced into something resembling pleasantry. "But that can wait until after you meet the board, and I'm sure you want to get back to your quarters early enough to get your rest. It must have been a long trip."

"It was." Bravo shrugged. He resisted a temptation to look back, but he knew Wendy would still be looking on, and hopefully re-thinking a few things.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Bravo. He belongs to the Big Mouse House, a/k/a Disney. We be makin' no money offa dis, capeesh? **

Bravo's introduction to the juvenile facility's board of directors had gone as he'd been led to expect - the usual formalities, with the usual offerings of pleasantry and caffeine-bearing beverages and and exposure to the language and jargon of a whole different professional world in which words such as "collaborative", "collective framework" and "treatment paradigm" ruled surpeme and "impact" had a meaning entirely divorced from the effect of bombs and missiles on a target.

If there was any similarity between the military and the world Bravo was, for a time, stepping into, the most obvious was a fondness for acronyms; by the time they ran through a few sample cases, the fighter had had his fill of them - BM for "biological mother", PINS for "person in need of supervision", PE for "psychological evaluation", CW for "case worker" and so on. He was still mentally working through them on the flight to his temporary lodgings at the state Air Guard station in Juneau, where a patrol and pursuit squadron was located. The Air Guard of each state which maintained such a body performed the role of "sky cops" and assisted other law enforcement/first responder agencies as needed, and while their role was a vital one, many regarded it as a dumping ground for the not-quite-retired, and the restive young progeny of obsolete model lines that hadn't seen actual military service since their parents' or grandparents' day. What diverse gaggle of a "squadron" were Bravo's new hosts? So far, only the Great Builder knew.

_At least it looks like a real airport here..._

Once on his assigned taxiway, Bravo followed the marshaller's wands until he came to a grey-painted "tug" with Air Guard insignia. She took a moment to look the Hornet mix up and down, verified his ID and blinked her lights for him to follow. Dipping his head, he discreetly inspected her in return. Airport tugs were small, but very heavy and immensely powerful, so that even the largest of planes could not push them around. As per their name, they hauled heavy ground support equipment, baggage carts and larger aircraft that could not move on the ground by themselves with a full load of fuel, cargo and/or passengers._ That's what Glencombe needs to handle Wendy,_ he mused._ Somebody like this girl, and a towing bridle fit for a B-52. Why don't they already have guards like that? _

Finally, as the first curtain of dusk fell, the hangars of the 3rd State Air Guard squadron came into view. Unsurprisingly, there was a "motley crew" on the flight line this evening. An older F-14 male and several other outmodes and assorted "mutts" shifted their eyes to inspect the newcomer, who accepted their scrutiny with the mild resignation of one who had had a long day. A long two days, actually, from Bravo's departure from San Diego the previous morning through a top-up in Seattle and the final long haul to Juneau. What he wanted now was somewhere to rest and chill for a while, before seeing what there was in the way of eatables. Perhaps stalks of fresh applegrass were too much to hope for this far north, though he did suddenly have a mad hankering for them. Better than semi-stale seedcakes to go with his fuel, toasted or not.

"Lt. - Commander Hall?" another voice broke him out of his thoughts._ Female. Contralto. Twentysomething. Warm and velvety._

"Yes." Bravo looked towards the sight that accompanied the sound, and paused as he viewed a living contradiction. There was no way that an F-8 Crusader should look and sound so... young, even though he knew that those who had served in the USN did have children... and grandchildren. That latest generation would be into their teens now, facing the prospects of competing for the limited slots in state Air Guard orgs, seeking careers in the civilian world or going abroad to serve in some other country's forces, legal or not. Such were the general options for young outmodes and mil-type crossbreeds. There were others, but only for a talented few.

"Lt. Eliza Briggs here." the "'Sader" woman smiled. "You came all the way from San Diego, didn't you? You must be ready to drop. Welcome to our humble abode."

"Yeah, it was a bit of a hike." Bravo admitted. "I've been in Alaska before, but this is my first time in the "panhandle."  
"I was born and raised here." Lt. Briggs chuckled. "This is where my folks settled down after they retired from the Navy. Dad was in the Blue Diamonds, and Mom was an instructor at Miramar before that went over to the Marines." She glanced over to the flight line, from where the senior Tomcat was still intently studying Bravo. "Looks like old Twelveclouds will be wanting to meet you as soon as he gets off duty. He was a Wrench himself."

"I see." Bravo hiked up slightly as he saw a muted grey Jolly Wrenches insignia on the F-14's nose, with the dates of his time of service noted underneath. Beside it was an equally muted representation of his USN service ribbons and decorations and the signifiers of an honorable conclusion to his military career. "Looks like he couldn't get "the call" out of his system."

"I don't think he ever will." the F-8 jigged up and down on her undercarriage with an accompanying jerk of stabilators, the carsversian airplane's version of a shrug. "I'll quit when I'm dead," he says. I just hope it won't be as a field of debris all over some mountainside. But we shouldn't be boring you with our drama when you're probably wondering when you get to sleep." She turned, lifting one aileron. "There's only six full-timers here, so there's plenty of room. I'm just part-time myself and I'm living with Dad on the other end. There's a nice spot by a window you can have, and a brand-new pad to go with it. You'll be fuelling with us as well." Lt. Briggs rolled out, her wing flap having cued Bravo to follow. "What do you go by?"

"Usually just "Bravo", Lieutenant." the Navy jet answered. The 'Sader had revealed more than a bit about herself in the first few minutes of meeting, but Bravo's manners wouldn't presume enough familiarity to inquire about her handle just yet. "So you're part-time, are you? Are you doing something else besides this?"

"I'm a student," she answered. "I'm working towards my degree from home, online. Someday, I hope, I'll be a social worker. I'd love to get into that organization Col. Woodman is setting up. We really need something for the young outmodes and mixes that are trying to find something to do with their lives. The Air Guard can't absorb them all, and nobody wants them falling in with sketchy people and gangs and rogue states just to keep themselves fed. You can see where I'm going with this?"

"Clear as day." Bravo nodded soberly, as the fresh memory of a caged and muzzled Hornet/Fulcrum mix surged back to the forefront of his mind. He looked aside as the group that had been on the flight line was released and stood down, and it looked like they would also be coming his way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Bravo, or any other characters owned by Disney. Weesa be makin' no money offa dis!**

Three body lengths by two wingspans were the dimensions of her stall, the boundaries of a cage through which she saw all that went on in the world, if Glencombe was the entire planet. For all the difference it made to Wendy, it might as well BE the world. Only the occasional droning of a caged TV at the far end of the aisle hinted that there might be life outside the confines of "the camp". The other occupants, comparatively privileged, looked out over half-gates as an orderly, with a guard alongside him, brought them their evening rations.

Wendy's closest neighbor was Evaline Doerne, the Sikorsky S-76 whose habits could be summed up as "anything that could be shot up or drunk down". How a helicopter in particular could function and stay alive while perpetually stoned was a source of wonder to her fellow residents in the girls' section of D wing, who, if they were being honest, might admit that they preferred Evie's "stoned" state to her current sober one, as she was second only to Wendy in the verbal abuse and cursing department. But her tirades were those of a "cell warrior" whose fundament would never cash the checks her mouth wrote, so no one took her threats seriously, least of all the guards. And if Evie ever had to face off with Wendy... well, the very thought would make her lose her oil... IF it ever happened.

Wendy loathed the helo all the more for that cowardice than her other flaws, and occasionally struck the bars with her muzzle just to keep Evie awake and on her gear. Presently, the Sikorsky was sipping on the can that had just been placed in her stall's cradle, while keeping as far as possible from the fighter. The Dash-8 and the P-40 mix down the aisle surged forward to take their rations; Desiree was in for her latest shoplifting spree, and Kendra had an explosive temper and a wicked way with her prop blades, wearing a hub lock and propeller blade guards for her trouble, though she was otherwise treated no differently from most of the others. But even Kendra gave Wendy's enclosure a wide berth, as the warbird was still wearing a foil bandage from the jet's last bite. The two made a great show of indifference as they fell to their repast.

Finally, the orderly and guard opened the can slot in Wendy's stall, and dropped the can into the cradle, then slamming the hatch and drawing clear. The fighter paused a moment, then dragged her booted self over to start feeding.

Since no clock was visible, Wendy measured the hours in day and night and feeding times - she'd lost count of the actual days, but reckoned her time already served to approximately a year. The last foster family had thrown up their flaps and given up on her after her last school rampage. She hardly remembered what they looked like - they were just one of a long string of people who were just in it for the payment they received from the state. It had began after she found her mother dead three days after her fifth birthday, and had continued up to her fifteenth. That last birthday had been four weeks ago, just another day in her life.

Wendy had never known her father, only hearing speculations that he had been "some Russian" by her looks and pigment. They had taken DNA samples, but she had never been privy to the results of testing. Her life had been one of people talking over her, but not TO her, and shunting her from place to place. That was almost all Wendy remembered, aside from dim recollections of being dragged from place to place by her mother, who had been increasingly unwell for the last year of their mutual existence. But her mother had loved her, and sought to protect her. It was all the family she'd ever known. If there were any other relatives, none of them had ever come forward to take responsibility.

Slowly, Wendy sucked on the can's straw-spout, angling her head to get it through the gaps in her muzzle. When she wasn't so agitated that it made no difference, the assemblage of steel, rubber, plastic and webbing weighed heavily on her. But she had learned that the sound of steel muzzle against steel bars had its own value when interlopers got too close. When people got too close, she got hurt - either outside or in. Ironically, the device meant to restrain her had become a shield of sorts, almost a security blanket. People flinched when she struck the bars, and backed off and left her alone. This, she figured, was as good as it would get.

In solitude, there lay safety.

Dunbar, the Air Guard squadron's chief pitty, came up to the low table with several bundles of refrigerated applecane stalks which he cut loose and placed on a tray for the jets grouped around it. At this latitude, "airplane crack" had to be shipped in from the south and was a special treat for social occasions. If humans had sampled this delicacy, they would have described it as cinnamon-laced applesauce in an organic green tube. At the california bases Bravo was accustomed to, the stuff grew wild, and while the wild 'cane didn't grow to the diameter of the cultivated strains, it was definitely more piquant; he had spent many a pleasant off-duty afternoon plucking stalks and rolling them between his jaws to get the pulp out, while shooting the breeze with his squadron mates.

Bravo missed them now, though Capt. Twelveclouds was doing his best to put him at ease, albeit the Tomcat's conversational riffs seemed to be variations on a theme of "kids these days..." and "In this man's Navy..." . However, he was, for the present, mollified to hear that the LSO who had been on the ship in his own time was still serving, though due to retire soon. As soon as Bravo had filled him in on how the Wrenches were doing these days, Twelveclouds settled and joined the rest in extracting and sucking applecane pulp and sharing other gossip.  
"So how's your dad, El?" he inquired of the Crusader woman. "I haven't seen much of him lately."

"He's working on some new formulas to measure drag coefficients." Eliza answered. "You know how he is when he's got a project, just holes up and forgets the world. He'd forget to eat and sleep too if I didn't remind him."

The F-14 nudged Bravo. "There's someone you gotta meet while you're here. El's old man, Dangerous Danny Briggs, they used to call him. He's got a real head for numbers, though that algebra and calculus stuff gives me headaches just thinking about it. El's not so bad at it either, she's smart as a whip and could do anything she put her mind to, though she's all set on being a "social worker", which to my mind means spending too much time in school so you can spend too much time with juvenile delinquents later on."

"Like the ones I'm going to be working with?" Bravo raised his brows.

"Six months is one thing." Twelveclouds huffed. "The rest of your damn life", well, that's a whole different thing altogether. Chasing after one of them for three hours was more than enough for me."

The part-bred Hornet paused. "That Russian mix?"

"So you saw her, eh?" the Tomcat snapped at another stalk. "Nasty little piece of work. They shouldn't have her here if they can't handle a fighter. Should be at East Park or Santa Clara where they could really whip her into shape. But if the social system of the Great State of Alaska doesn't want to admit that they can't deal with the little witch, who am I to argue? I only spent twenty damn years chasing her old man's cousins around three oceans. MiGs or part-MiGs only get worse when you try to "reason" with them. I'd rather deal with Flankers any day."  
Eliza stifled a frown as she listened to Twelveclouds rant. She delicately picked up a cane stalk and pretended to listen in on the conversation of Jaclyn and Parsons, the other fighters at the table, as they discussed an impending birth in the family of a mutual friend. But her eyes slipped back as Bravo spoke up.

"She wasn't very friendly when we met, no." Bravo admitted. "But I can't see how muzzling her and putting her in a cage will improve her any. But her mother was an F-18, right?"

"Yeah." Twelveclouds nodded. "She was in the Navy until she got a medical discharge, that much I know from my connections. But I couldn't tell you who that kid's father was, just some Fulcrum who musta been turned loose after the Cold War was done. There was a LOT of'em just wandering around in the 90's. They were almost more trouble on their own than in their military, 'til they all settled down. But obviously that kid's mother liked one enough to jump frames with him, and now we're dealing with their little mistake."

Bravo did not miss the pained look that crossed Eliza's face, or how she looked away and rolled back a few feet, rudder twitching. _No child is a mistake_, her eyes seemed to say.

As Bravo was between her and the Tomcat, his body screened this reaction from Twelveclouds, who went on about how what Wendy needed was a few weeks of old-fashioned brig-style discipline. But Jaclyn - 2nd Lt. Jaclyn Rumkowski, who was across the table and could see everything, decided that some bean dip was in order and found a way to divert the "old Wrench" to some other topic, to the relief of everyone else.

The next morning dawned overcast, and a bit cooler. Fall was in the air, and winter would be hard on its heels. Thankful was Bravo that he had come at a time of seasonal transition and would have time to get used to the cold. He wasn't due at Glencombe until 0830, and it was still 0600 yet. As the hours of daylight shortened over time, it wouldn't be long before he was rising in the dark and coming back in the dark. After a yawn and a stretch, Bravo departed from his lodgings, to find Eliza and Jaclyn hanging together at the edge of the apron. Twelveclouds, so he understood, was already out on patrol.

"Good morning." he said to the two women, smiling pleasantly. As far as he was concerned, he had no official rank here.  
"Morning, Bravo." Eliza returned the greeting. "You already know Jaclyn from last night, eh?" Thus introduced, the A-4 Skyhawk girl reacted with a tight, diffident smile. She was barely out of her teens, but would never see carrier service like her parents. The Air Guard would be the main outlet for her inborn martial instincts. "Jackie's new, but she definitely has a knack for steering awkward conversations to calmer waters."  
"You have my thanks." the Navy fighter tipped his nose. "So are you part-time as well?"

"For now." Jaclyn nodded. "Saving money for school, but I'm also going for a sports scholarship. Jet class racing and maybe the 3-day event thing that's coming in for fast jets."

"I've heard of that." Bravo recalled what little TV coverage he'd seen on the carrier. Time trials and one-on-one heats on the first day, simulated ground attack component on day two and mock dogfights on day three. A cynic would suggest that this was a convenient measure to keep all these free-roaming surplus fighters occupied and out of trouble, but the combat phases had proven popular with spectators and made for good TV. "So you're not put off by the faster movers?"

"They'll be in a different class, starting next year." Jaclyn replied.

"Thank goodness." Eliza nodded. "The Russians really dominate the sport at that level. There's more than enough of them. Anyway, who's for breakfast? We could go to Luciano's for that, they have the best seedcakes. You up for that, Bravo?"

"Sounds interesting." he nodded. The women led the way into the civvy section of the airport, where a bright, neon-lit roll-in diner winked its lights enticingly. Luciano's served all comers - cars, trucks and planes. There were a few intrigued stares as the Navy jet took his place with the two Air Guard women, but people for the most part minded their own business.

"Good morning, ladies!" a pitty man in bright red bustled out of the kitchen. "I see there's a new gentleman with you."  
"Hey Lucky, this is Bravo. He'll be staying at our HQ for a while." Eliza explained.

"Oh." the pitty looked thoughtful. "I heard they were bringing someone military in to work with that fighter kid at the juvie. Would that be you?"

"I guess." Bravo drew in his breath. He just wasn't getting away from it. Of course a fighter kid who had made a few breaks for it would be public knowledge. He hadn't been brought in solely on HER account, but it was the inevitable assumption that everyone outside would make.  
"I wish you luck with that kid, I really do." Lucky placed a few menu cards in stands before the jets. "Special is toasted seedcakes with syrup and cirtus infusion, I know that's Eliza's favorite." he grinned to the 'Sader woman. "Take your time, folks. I'll be back in a few." Just as quickly as he'd popped up, he was off again. Seedcakes consisted of partially-ground seeds and nuts with a high oil content, such as sunflower or almonds, mixed with other ingredients to a heavy batter, and then baked. For final prep, cake slices or small cake rounds would be toasted and then moistened with a small amount of syrup or sometimes fruit. Some places would skewer them with alternating fruit slices for ease of consumption by vehicles.

"I guess... that girl's "escapades" had the whole town talking." Bravo said to Eliza and Jaclyn. "Were you two involved in the chase?"  
"It was a bit before Jackie's time here, but I was part of it." Eliza admitted. "We were patrolling over the shore south of Juneau, helping out the Coasties looking out for smugglers, when Wendy broke away during an exercise flight, so there was a ten-minute delay before we could get on her tail. We can't deal with juvies like we can deal with adults, so we had to go easy - Twelveclouds wasn't happy at all. You already heard what he thinks of Russians and part-Russians by now. We pursued her well into Canada, as far as the Alberta border where they scrambled a flight of fighters from Cold Lake to intercept her. It took all of us and all of them to keep her penned in until she got tired and gave up. The Canucks weren't too happy either, and who can blame them? One of their guys almost crashed trying to out-maneuver her, and right over a populated area at that. She's got the full benefit of those MiG genes for sure - strength and staying power. She'll be a terror when she's fully grown."

Bravo thought over the implications. They wouldn't be pretty ones if no one reached this girl before it was too late. He looked down at the menu, but all the available selections were just swimming letters next to these sober thoughts. "I think I'll just go along with the special." In the corner of his eye, the pitty had re-appeared and was just about ready to take their orders.

The lights went on in D Wing at 0700, and the TV in the corner of the aisle clicked on shortly after. Wendy shook herself and stretched, and waited for the attendants and guards to arrive with the morning ration. This, she reckoned, was a Wednesday, a day on which they put a towing bridle and bull poles on her and escorted her to the wash rack. No one of the pitties was heavy enough to deal with her on his or her own, and cars and trucks weren't built to safely do the job. The other kids would go to classes, and be let out in the exercise yard, and hang out between mealtimes. But not Wendy. They were just too scared that she'd do something.

Looking up, the crossbreed saw what was on TV. They were on the sports network again. Either that or the education channel. A segment on the newest and hottest air sport, the Three Day Event, had begun. Wendy stirred, turning and leaning towards the left to get a better view of the screen. The camera swept over several competitors prepping on the flight line, finally stopping on one of the American contenders, a snow-white F-16 youth with the pink eyes of an albino. There followed a brief interview with this young man, Kirk Vandergaarde. His genetic condition excluded him from actual military service, since albinism carried with it all kinds of potential liabilities. He had sought an outlet in the Air Guard cadets, and then sports. Kirk's determination and drive had propelled him quite far up the ladder for his age, leading to high hopes for a victory in the world championship.

As she craned her neck, a sound escaped her. To her stallmates, it sounded something like... a sigh.  
"Wendy's in looooooove!" whooped Evaline. "She SO wants to do that hot Falcon guy!" The others in the girls' aisle hooted and called out in response.

Wendy glowered at them, and swept her muzzle across her stall grating. Evaline yelped as she flinched from a rain of sparks. "$%#! off, b!#$ , who asked you?" the fighter snarled back at the helicopter. "You should know all about "doing" people, you did EVERYBODY who could # ..."

"That's enough of that, girls." the chief guard called out as he made his entrance with a team of pitties. "Time for your wash, Wendy. The better you behave, the faster it'll go." Gingerly they unlocked and entered the enclosure, then hooked on the bridle and bull poles while unfastening the tire boot. With one pitty towing and the others keeping her steady, the grumbling Wendy rolled the two hundred yards to the facility's wash rack, in another building.

Even from that distance, Wendy could hear Evaline going in a singsong tone. "Wendy wants to do him! Wendy wants to do him!" She snorted as the jets of warm water hit her. "Onna these days we'll see how brave you are outside, Evie." she muttered.


End file.
